


Phryne's Fault

by Jaydeun



Category: Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Cute, Fanfiction, First Kiss, Fluff, Friends to Lovers, M/M, Miss Fischer, Watching mysteries
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-12
Updated: 2019-08-12
Packaged: 2020-08-20 03:07:33
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,339
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20220778
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jaydeun/pseuds/Jaydeun
Summary: When Crowley is irritated by the end of Season Two (Miss Fisher Mysteries), Aziraphale decides to go looking for "better endings." When he stumbled upon a story on A03, he decides to send it to Crowley... Before reading it... Luckily Crowley gets the RIGHT idea.





	Phryne's Fault

**Author's Note:**

  * For [elizajane](https://archiveofourown.org/users/elizajane/gifts), [Crowgirl](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Crowgirl/gifts).
  * Inspired by [So Deep You’re Really a Part of Me](https://archiveofourown.org/works/3365663) by [elizajane](https://archiveofourown.org/users/elizajane/pseuds/elizajane). 

> Inspired by a friend's fanfic of Miss Fischer. Not beta'd.

“That? _That’s_ _it?_” Crowley was leaning too far forward, staring in irritation at the flat screen television he’d insisted Aziraphale keep in the spare room. It perched somewhat precariously on the coffee table, just as Crowley perched precariously on the sofa.

Aziraphale patted him anxiously, just at the small of his back.

“But they did solve the mystery, my dear.”

“Wh—well ya-hoo. But fuck that.” He collapsed backward, arms folded like an irritated child. “Two seasons of this bullshit and they can’t work up the nerve to snog at least?”

Aziraphale’s eyes flitted between the credits for _Miss Fischer_ and Crowley’s down-turned mouth. True, Phryne and Jack hadn’t quite made the leap. But all of that was far less interesting than Crowley’s reaction to another season ending without closure. He was still rubbing a small circle into Crowley’s back, smiling gently.

“I thought you didn’t _like _romance?”

“It’s _not_ a romance,” Crowley sniped, jerking away (but then coming right back again).

“You know that it is. Consider Hugh and Dot, after all.”

“Oh yeah, he figured it out—episode 2.” Crowley said, reaching for his ever-filled wine glass. “What the _hell_ is wrong with Jack?”

Airaphale raised an eyebrow.

“I beg your pardon? You could just as easily ask what is wrong with _Phryne_, you know. Miss Fischer has had plenty of, erm, experience in this sort of thing.” He withdrew his hand from Crowley and folded them in his lap with his best ‘explain yourself’ expression. “Are you suggesting that Jack has to make the first move, hmm?”

Crowley wasn’t wearing his sunglasses, so his inability to make eye contact was rather easy to observe.

“Ngk—um. It’s not—” fingers twirled in the air as if trying to pull the answers from ether. He must have caught one, too; he snapped his fingers. “Look here, angel. That’s the point, in’it? She does all the leading, right, so it’s his turn. That’s why.” He looked smugly certain of himself, but only for a moment. “She _could _lend a hand though. And it’s writers, anyway. Damn writers, looking for ratings. Keeping it all _just so fucking on edge_.”

“Are you?” Aziraphale asked, the very picture of sweetness, “on edge?”

Crowley’s face twisted into something less than wholly pleasant, and Aziraphale thought he might have offended him. Their relationship roles were still a bit unclear, after all. But he needn’t have worried overmuch.

“Ah, yeah? Yeah,” Crowley shrugged. “You wouldn’t like it if I dangled a bit of cake in front of you, then didn’t let you eat it.”

That was a _wonderful _idea, Aziraphale thought with a slight tingling rush. But he did get the point being made.

“I see. So, you don’t like romance, but you like to be teased—”

“No, I _don’t_ like to be teased,” Crowley interrupted. Then thought better of it and added “for too long.”

They lapsed into a suddenly embarrassed silence, both of them blushing terribly.

“Well,” Aziraphale said, setting himself to rights with a full-body wiggle, “We have the rest of _Midsomer Murders _to watch, you know.” More wine, more mysteries, and more _attention_ from Aziraphale’s hands on Crowley’s back were all it took. By the time Crowley ambled back to his flat, the disappointment of Miss Fischer had been largely forgotten.

Not, however, by Aziraphale.

***

“So who do you blame?” Anathema asked, finishing the hot cocoa Aziraphale had provided.

“Well, I suppose I thought Phryne ought to do the work. Women taking the lead and all that.” Aziraphale sighed. “Crowley did seem _terribly_ put out.”

“That’s sweet,” Anathema grinned, a bit devilishly, “Tell him I said so.” Aziraphale tutted.

“I wouldn’t dare. Still, I wish I could miracle up a new ending.”

“You don’t have to,” Anathema said, setting her cup aside and hunting out her smartphone. “Other people already did. See here?”

Aziraphale put on his spectacles and peered at the tiny screen.

“A-O-3?”

“Yes! _Archive of Our Own_, it’s called. I’ll send it to your email.” Anathema casually typed into her phone, and Aziraphale suppressed a groan. He knew how to use a computer, of course. He just didn’t fancy them much.

“So there are endings on AO3, for the Miss Fischer story?” he asked instead.

“Mmm-Hmm,” she pecked him on the cheek, “Find one you like and send it to Crowley. He’ll be super impressed.”

_Well, _thought Aziraphale. Doesn’t seem so hard, does it? When she’d gone, he slid the desk chair over in front of the machine. With a few punched buttons and a lot of whirring and purring from the computer, he managed to navigate from Anathema’s email to the archive. Ms ElizaJane had a great deal of items there, but luckily the link had taken him directly to the Miss Fischer mysteries.

“Oh!” Aziraphale clapped his hands together. He'd just spotted one for _Episode s2 e13 Murder under the Mistletoe._ The very episode! He adjusted his spectacles and scanned the summary; _But in that moment she looks up at Jack and realizes -- it’s a shock that brings surprised tears to her eyes -- that he’s __part of this__. That he’s not asking her to leave, to change, that he doesn’t just want her -- he wants this life they’ve made together. _Aziraphale felt a slight leaping in his stomach, a bit like the one he felt when Crowley hit a speed bump at 80 kph.

“He’s part of this,” he repeated to himself, feeling warm and soft. “This life they’ve made together.” The shiver of warmth and love curled around him like incense. Yes, this was the one. He would send it to Crowley without delay, along with the message: _Just like you and me._

And _then _he read it.

(Crowley read it, too, while driving. He arrived a full fifteen minutes later than intended, slightly disheveled and breathing erratically, to find Aziraphale still at the computer and reading furiously.)

“You—sent—that—” Crowley gasped, voice singing like high-tension wires. Aziraphale turned in his seat, eyes very wide and face very pink.

“It would seem I did,” he squeaked. Crowley didn’t move. He just stared at him, red hair mussed, coat askew, hands grasping at air like they didn’t know what to do with themselves. A sudden jolt went through Aziraphale and then settled behind his swooping stomach. _Jack, _he thought. He reminded him of Jack, when he turned his back on Rosie and came back for Phryne.

“Aziraphale? I just, I wanted to, ah, that is,” Crowley’s mouth opened a closed a few times more, no sound coming out. He walked further into the room, but not quite far enough to reach Aziraphale. _Just a few more feet, for heaven’s sake, _Aziraphale thought.

“You wanted to what?” Aziraphale asked. _Drat, I am being Phryne, now aren’t I?_

“That was not how the show ended.” Crowley swallowed, Adam’s apple bobbing. Aziraphale’s blush deepened.

“Decidedly not, my dear.”

“It was better.”

“Much better,” Aziraphale agreed. _Two more feet, Crowley, I am right here_. Crowley took a single step.

“You said _just like us_. Did you—mean that?” Crowley asked. The swooping sensation in Aziraphale’s stomach had become a kind of vibrating pressure. Had he? Meant it? Like that?

“I suppose I must do,” he said, casting his eyes up to meet Crowley’s dark lenses. Almost on cue, Crowley removed them and tossed them aside. Then he closed the gap.

But he didn’t touch Aziraphale. He hovered close, very close. They’d been close before; they’d shared sleeping quarters and covers, and there were Aziraphale’s fingertips and Crowley’s back and shoulders—but maybe, just maybe—

Aziraphale grasped Crowley’s lapels in both hands and pulled him to meet his own lips. Crowley made a faint sound, like _please _and _thankyou_ in one, and wrapped himself tightly about the angel.

“It was Phryne’s fault,” Aziraphale whispered into his collarbone. “I told you so.”

“Nobody’s fault,” Crowley said, pulling back so he could look down at Aziraphale. “I’m here, now.”

“Home,” Aziraphale said, squeezing his hand and leading him toward the staircase. “Together.”


End file.
